Due to a family emergency, co-worker Maureen’s husband dropped their behemoth spawn 9-year-old son Andre (seriously?) off at work yesterday afternoon and the fat little fucker adorable tot spent the time wandering about annoying the ever-lovin’ shit delighting everyone with his seemingly endless inventory of jokes he heard from his Uncle Dumbass Josh.

After making the rounds, the little bastard decided I was the most friendly and approachable and decided to give me an exclusive preview of his forthcoming show at Caesar’s Palace. Here is an exclusive TDtC, TCtI sneak peek…

Andre: What’s the difference between Santa and Tiger Woods?
Dirk: You know, I’m kinda busy here.
Andre: Santa stops after 3 ho’s.
Dirk: …
Andre: My Uncle Josh told me that one.

Andre: What do Tiger Woods and a baby seal have in common?
Dirk: You know, Andre, your mom is probably looking for you.
Andre: No, I told her I was going to tell you some jokes and she said okay. What do Tiger Woods and a baby seal have in common?
Dirk: …
Andre: They both got clubbed by a Norweigan.

Andre: Did you hear Tiger Woods had to change his name?
Dirk: Last joke, okay?
Andre: Did you hear Tiger Woods had to change his name?
Dirk: I have a lot of work to get done and baby-sitting isn’t part of it.
Andre: My mom says you don’t have any children so you’d like it if I told you some jokes.
Dirk: Your mom probably didn’t realize I was at work.
Andre: Did you hear Tiger Woods had to change his name?
Dirk: No, Andre, I did NOT hear that.
Andre: To Cheeto Woods.
Dirk: That doesn’t even make sense.
Andre: My Uncle Josh told me that one. My mom says he’s different but in a good way.
Dirk: I’m thinking your mom lied.
Andre: Huh?
Dirk: Nothing.

Ah, the joys of being back at work.

(And since Uncle Josh obviously didn’t have any, are there any readers out there with a Tiger joke for Andre’s Carnagie Hall debut?)

Oh, the holidays. So much to do (mostly because other people have “families” and think it’s fine to haul ass and leave the resident faggot behind to clean up their shit while they pack their fat fucking faces with pumpkin pie and snooze in front of some goddamn football game). Therefore in an effort to get everything finished AND please my ever dwindling readership, I offer up today’s lame-ass odds and ends…

~ First up, the best news I’ve heard in months: Charles Pratt Jr. has FINALLY(!!!!!) been served his pink slip after totally destroying the story fabric of Pine Valley. Adios, Chuck — don’t let the door hit you.

~ In further proof that the end is nigh, NEW MOON becomes the 3rd all time best opening movie. 

~ While I’m on the topic of NEW MOON, in an interview posted by UK’s New! magazine, Pattinson reinforces his grody-ness. “These jeans are a few days old,” he says. “But the top is probably fresh because it gets to the point where even I can’t stand the air around me. I don’t know, my personal hygiene – it’s so disgusting!” 

~ According to ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY,  multiple insiders report that “Fox has informed Joss Whedon that it will not be ordering additional installments of his low-rated drama beyond the current 13-episode order. On the bright side, the network still plans to burn off the remaining unaired episodes beginning in December.” Dammit, first EASTWICK, now DOLLHOUSE — I fucking hate network television.

~ Mariah Carey. Why?

~ And finally, I was shocked to learn of the passing of Ken Ober, perhaps best (and only) known as the host of MTV’s late 80’s game show REMOTE CONTROL. Rest in Peace, Ken.

A few weeks ago, The Fella and I went to a David Sedaris reading in a neighboring city. As one would expect, Sedaris was both intelligent and hilarious.

Afterwards, we got a few copies of our books signed.

“Hello,” David smiled at my fella. “What’s your name?”

“Tristan.”

“And you are?

“Dirk.”

“Do you have any autumnal plans this weekend, Dirk?”

I was struck instantly mute. David Sedaris had just asked me a question and despite my best efforts, I could not think of a single witty quip or humorous bon mot to throw his way. Suddenly, a response came to me.

“No.” 

Unfortunately, I was so nervous that it came out as a three syllable word (“Nuh-oh-oh.”)

Obviously struck by my dead-on “…and Jeri Jewell as the orgasmic special needs ‘mo” impression, Sedaris surveyed me for a moment then turned his attention back to my saucy man candy companion. “How do you two know each other?” he asked as he began a sketch in Tristan’s copy of When You Are Engulfed In Flames.

“We’re dating,” Tristan replied.

David looked up, his eyes going from Tristan to me then back to Tristan. “Really? I wouldn’t have taken you for a homosexual.”

Tristan smiled. “Neither would my parents…as they’ve told me time and again.”

“How did the two of you meet?” David asked as he went back to his sketch.

“Online.”

“I hear a lot of people do that these days. How long have you been going out?”

Tristan looked at me and smiled. “A little over a year and half…”

“Are you living together?”

Awkward silence.

“No,” Tristan replied. “Not yet.”

Not yet.

As in “not at this time, but perhaps at some point in the future.”

As in “his snoring isn’t a big enough impediment to us moving forward with things at some point many years down the road provided something better doesn’t come along.”

As in “maybe.”

The rest of our brief interaction with brilliant writer is a bit of a blur because all I could do was stand there with a big dumb grin on my face as I tried to process the fact that Tristan seems to be entertaining the idea of us co-habitating at some point.

“Not yet.”

In the fucked up relationship universe of one Mr. Dirk Mancuso, those are some pretty wicked awesome words.

Yeah, the whole “famous-author-thinking-my-boyfriend-has-a-retard-fetish-going-on” thing aside, it was a pretty spectacular evening.

Former ONE DAY AT A TIME star (and I am using that word VERY liberally here) Mackenzie Phillips reveals in her new book that she was introduced to drugs by her father John Phillips of the Mamas and the Papas as well as raped by him on the night before her wedding…then went on to have a long term sexual relationship with him.

Ew.

Phillips went on to say that at one point her father suggested they go to another country such as Fiji where their incestuous relationship would be accepted.

That dude was seriously fucked up on the smack. 

And desperately in need of a visit to Lenscrafters.

As I prepare a take no prisoners recap of Chicago Comic-con 2009 (and by take no prisoners I mean get off my dead ass and download my pics of the weekend), I thought I’d share a little bit of the crap that is swirling around my head this fine Wednesday morning…

~ Sweet. Mother. Of. God. Did anybody catch LARRY KING LIVE  guest host Kathy Griffin interviewing Teen Choice Awards “date” Levi Johnston? Granted, he’s all kinds of pretty but goddamn! — that boy ain’t exactly gonna split an atom any time soon, is he?

I’m not sure which is my favorite moment…is it when Kathy used flash cards of the celebrities at the awards and he didn’t know who anyone was despite having just attended (3:30) — he refers to Wolverine a.k.a. Hugh Jackman as “the dude with swords in his fingers” — or when Kathy asks him if he can read as he stumbles along trying to read a fan’s letter to Miley Cyrus (8:00).

~ I can’t believe there isn’t going to be a third season of FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS. That totally sucks ass.

~ The Fella is already mocking me relentlessly over my fevered anticipation for the premiere of THE VAMPIRE DIARIES. (As I told him: it’s the new GOSSIP GIRL…only with fangs, bitch!)

~ Stone Cold Creamery Cake Batter ice cream is like sweet frozen crack. Word.

~ I don’t want to lend credence to those “Michael Jackson faked his death” rumors but there was a suspiciously familiar someone in the audience the evening that Tristan and I took in THE ORPHAN (a wonderully awful horror film with a twist I predicted the second I saw the trailers).

~ I hate when lesbians ask you to help them move and assume you will out of gay solidarity even though they are total gashes to you any other day of the week.

~ Could someone tell me on what planet (or what drugs you have to be on) that this is considered attractive?

Maybe I’m just out of touch but in my universe ”attractive” has a more literal meaning…like this:

~ Can any of my male readers recommend a good beard trimmer? I bought one about six months ago and that fucker took six men and a boy to operate and I ended up cutting huge chunks out of my beard much to Tristan’s dismay. Seriously, I need something so simple that Corky from LIFE GOES ON could use. If he could grow a beard.

That’s it for now, kids. Tune in tomorrow as I ask for help with a very tough situation I’ve gotten myself into…

Previously on Too Disgusting to Contemplate, too Compelling to Ignore: Dirk and The Fella’s fuckery has an audience and later as every orifice in his body clenches up in anticipation of his beloved Debbie Gibson taking the stage, tragedy strikes as a scheduling change leads to a faded disco star taking the pop princess’s slot…

As Thelma Who-ston began warbling, I immediately dug out my Pride Program to do the math and figure out when Debbie would be performing. If a pop princess leaves the station at 2:30 at the speed of awesomeness and a faded disco queen whose hit(s) I couldn’t recall if my Little Mermaid collection depended on it leaves another station at 4:30 at the speed of WTF, when can a nancy boy see the celebrity of his choice on the North Stage? Plus 2…carry the 4…divide by the square root of why-does-this-always-happen-to-me…

Goddammit.

It would be 4:30 before Debbie would be rockin’. How could I possibly ask my fella to wait another 2 hours to see someone he was only there to see because I was nuts about her? 

Thankfully I have the bestest boyfriend in the known universe because before I could even begin whining and cajoling and promising to take his nearly 8 inches down my throat once we got back to the hotel, he said something so super-wonderful that it brings tears to my eyes once again as I recount it for y’all:

“Why don’t we go get something to drink, cool off, and then come back so you can see Debs?”

Ohmigod.

Handsome, hairy, AND he totally got the depth of my love for the Debster.

I know, right?

So it was off to The Cellblock for a couple of cold ones and then back to the North Stage where this time a drag queen show was in progress. After what seemed like a bajillion years, the emcee once more took the stage and said the words I had dreamt of hearing ever since I was a *coughcough* sophomore in college: “Ladies and gentlemen — Deborah Gibson!” (Well actually I had dreamt of hearing Debbie Gibson, but dreams — like people — have to be a wee bit flexible, I guess.)

And then as the opening strains of “Shake Your Love” — my all time favorite DG hit it should be noted — filled my dainty shell-like ears she took the stage, a marabou trimmed black top and white mini shorts clad dynamo.

I inhaled deeply, turned my face to the heavens and muttered a “thank you, Jesus” before returning my focus to the stage.

And the hits kept coming: Out of the Blue…Lost in Your Eyes…Foolish Beat…

and of course Electric Youth. (Mad props to back-up dancers Justin and Eddie!)

It was pure Debbie magic.

The time flew by and as the final note of her grand finale  – Only In My Dreams — faded into the air, I let go a sigh of great contentment. I had seen Debbie Gibson. In person. Could it get any better than this?

In a word — yes. Because as we stood there rooted in place filing our Debbie memories away for all time, the emcee once again took the stage and uttered words that sent shivers down my spine:

“After a brief break to freshen up, Debbie will be signing autographs and posing for pictures…”

Oh.

My.

God.

And as the unthinkable settled in, so did another thought: Tristan had already indulged me so much how could I even ask him to spend another hour or two waiting to meet the greatest thing since the mesh half shirt?

Remember that part earlier where I said Tristan was the bestest boyfriend in the known universe? Scratch that. He’s the bestest boyfriend in the known galaxy, because before I could even open my big gay yap with myriad promises of finally doing that one little thing I’m not so crazy about and he is, he took my hand and said, “C’mon — you better get in line before there’s a thousand people ahead of you.”

I swear to God I hit the big gay jackpot with this one, folks.

And so we took our place in what appeared to be the Million Man ’Mo March to meet and greet Ms. Gibson.

I’m not gonna lie, folks — it was grueling: it was sweltering, my sunscreen was failing me something fierce, more than one person’s deodorant was flagging, and we were in front of two women who had just returned from The New Kids On The Block Carnival Cruise and were totally regaling the crowd with tales of that epic sea journey to the delight of the gentlemen in front of us and behind them. Frankly, it was the Bataan Death March of autograph lines. But I endured. And I texted The Pirate like mad as we inched ever closer to the musical angel from Brooklyn, New York.

Then after what seemed like an eternity (but was in all actuality only about 37 minutes), I found myself three fans away from greatness. Two fans. One.

And then it was my turn for an audience with The Debinator.

Those 55.3 seconds was everything I had dreamt of and more. (Okay, that’s a lie because in my dreams we totally brush each other’s hair, talk about cute boys, and diss Tiffany but there were other people waiting…)

And because I’m a giver, not only did I snag an autograph for myself but I got one for The Pirate, too!  Of course they were both on Panera Bread receipts because I did not $15 for an official 8×10 but whatevs. (When I texted her with the news afterwards, she responded “I JUST SHAT MYSELF.” Now that is someone who gets the Debbie Gibson experience.)

With the thrill of a lifetime behind me, I quickly sent the photo to everyone in my directory that I knew would be totally jealous and wish they could’ve traded places with me as well as a few who could care less.

Debbie Gibson and Dirk Mancuso. Further proof that dreams do come true.
___________

And now for all the super Debbie fans like me, I give you the trailer to a little film I recently ordered from Amazon…

Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson.

Can we please talk about something else now?

Wacko Jacko is dead.

Sigh.

I suppose we’ll be hearing about this for the next eleventy hundred years.

And of course it’s begun already: deejays and entertainment reporters who’ve mocked Jacko’s various idiosyncrasies and legal problems over the years are now mourning the loss of “one of the greatest performers of all time”; the endless testimonials from tearful fans telling their stories about the first time they saw Michael moonwalk (we all saw that special so get over it); those nutjobs keeping vigil outside UCLA Medical Center (what does that shit prove, may I ask?); and the outrage over the supposed last photo of Michael on the ET website (hey, it may be tacky but when your life was a circus you gotta expect there to be gawkers).

Why can’t we just remember the good times and move on?

(Any guesses how long it will be before the first tabloid declares this whole thing to be an elaborate ruse by The King of Pop to escape the glare of the spotlight — and his financial woes — and start a new life in New Zealand? And since celebrity deaths always come in three, any guess who the next two will be?)

I’m sure by now, many of you have read or heard about the kerfuffle caused by Perez Hilton running photos of Academy Award winning MILK scribe Dustin Lance Black having what appears to be unprotected sex with his then-boyfriend. 

Perez’s reasoning? It’s the standard line: 

We’ll say it again, no matter WHO you are, do NOT take naked pictures of yourself or make a sex tape. It WILL get out there, even if you’re not famous now and never think you will be. They will get out there and everyone at your work, in your team, in your dorm will find out.

Of course at this point one certain someone’s cow is already out of the (seemingly) unprotected barn but it did get me wondering how many of you reading this have ever taken photos of yourself and a lover/partner/spouse in the act of lovemaking? And if you did, do you know the whereabouts of said photos at this point in time? If not, do you ever wonder about where they are? If you have them, would you ever use them to get even with your ex?

Spill…

What were you thinking, Rupert Everett?!?!?!?!?

I seriously thought that was Kevin Kline on the right the first time I saw this.